Big Brother
by Tillthewheelsfalloff
Summary: Sherlock forgot his brother was not an invincible superhero that every little boy sees there older brother as. He always believed it would be Mycroft standing over His dead body, but it wasn't. One-shot. Rated for Character death. I do not own Sherlock.


**AN: Idea that came to me in the shower. Just a completely random story, un-betaed.**

**If you read my other story 'Old Friends' I am still writing the next chapter but it's slow progress at the moment.**

John sighed as he knew Sherlock wasn't going to bother opening the front door when he heard the door bell, and Mrs Hudson was away so John himself stood up and hobbled down the stairs pulling the front door open.

"Anderson?"

"Watson, is Sherlock here?"

"Yeah, he's upstairs come in." John stepped back to allow the man in despite note liking him it was obviously important due to the urgency in Andersons eyes, but Anderson shook his head and opened his mouth to say something else but a creak at the top of the stairs alerted the men to Sherlocks presence.

"You called me Sherlock."

"Yes, that's' your name isn't it?"

"Yes but you _never_ call me Sherlock. Its either freak or Holmes."

"And? Your point?"

"You called John, Watson, but called me Sherlock. So it's something to do with me. Obviously because you asked for me when John answered the door, but you haven't glared at me or insulted me yet which on average happens within 5.7 seconds of seeing me. So what you have to tell me is something very important, perhaps even upsetting. Someone I know, most likely care about is injured possibly dead. There are only a few people _worth_ caring about that I know. John is not injured because he's here, it's not Lestrade because he texted me a few moments ago to 'not slam the door in Andersons face' and it's not Mrs Hudson because John was just speaking to her on the phone. So its Mycroft then. Where?"

"45 Fitzroy Street. The warehouse."

"We'll come in a taxi not the police car." Anderson nodded and promptly left whilst Sherlock pulled on his coat and scarf, "Come on John." Sherlock basically yelled at the shorter man, the only sign of his distress. So John silently pulled on his coat and followed Sherlock into the taxi.

"Are you alright?" he asked once they were sat down.

"Of course." Sherlock lied. "I'm always alright."

"Your _brother_ has most likely been injured. It's fine if you're worried."

"It may not be Mycroft."

"Sherlock, your deduction skills are _always_ right and Anderson didn't correct you when you said it must be him." Blunt, John knew but that was always the best way with Sherlock.

Sherlock ignored him, of course.

They arrived at the warehouse and Sherlock practically ran out the car whilst John paid the driver and followed his best friend.

Sherlock knew John was right, he knew it was gonna be Mycroft lying there dead, but nothing could prepare him for seeing it with his own eyes.

His always strong, _powerful_ brother was lying in a pool of his own blood pale and broken.

Dead.

Sherlock was taken back to being five again and crawling into his brothers bed after having a nightmare, or being bullied at school and Mycroft would scare the bullies away, and playing pirates together dad would tell them off but that never stopped them as Sherlock made his brother walk the plank.

This was too much, it was too hard. He never wanted this, he never thought it would happen like this. Ever. He always believed it would be Mycroft standing over His dead body, but it wasn't.

His big brother is dead.

Completely dead and Sherlock knew he wouldn't _rest_ until he found the killer.

Until he got his revenge.

"I'm sorry." a voice stated bringing Sherlock out of his thoughts. Lestrades voice.

"Don't be _sorry_, find the murder." and with that Sherlock immediately began rattling off deductions, including things that he knew his brother wouldn't do or wear, such as the bright rainbow tie or the sheep cufflinks. Speaking these deductions in his usual deep monotone voice, his _bored_ voice.

And everyone except two people thought that his brother's death hadn't affected him in the slightest, those who thought Sherlock was an unfeeling, cold sociopath couldn't see it. He may be a sociopath but he still _cared_, he still loved his brother despite never saying it out loud.

Those two people could see this. Those two people observed.

Sherlock's hand was shaking and he put it in his pocket the minute he noticed, he missed the most obvious things that even _Anderson_ saw, his breathing was different-short and unsteady breaths, he kept blinking quickly, and he kept glancing at John seeking reassurance?

They weren't obvious things but anyone who knew Sherlock well enough could see them. Lestrade and John exchanged a look both making a silent promise to look after Sherlock no matter the consequence, and at that moment John realised that despite the insults and the shouting, Lestrade really cared for Sherlock, cared for him like a father would his son and John understood completely. Sherlock was like the brother John never had, that included the arguing.

It was a week later when John was getting really worried; Sherlock had _not stopped_ for the whole week. He hadn't eaten, slept or rested in a week and it was wearing on him.

It was normal for Sherlock to not eat or sleep while on a case it apparently 'slowed his brain' but he had never gone a week without it, his eyes were dark and beginning to drop, his skinny form was beginning to get un healthily skinny and his movements were lagging. So John did what any good friend should do despite how angry Sherlock was gonna be, John convinced the man to drink some tea and he laced it with sedative, enough for the man to sleep for at least 9 hours. This showed how tired Sherlock was, he didn't notice what John had done, at least not until he had basically drifted off. John carried the too light man to his bed and made sure to cover him warmly.

As he expected Sherlock was angry, heck he was _pissed_, but he didn't spend to long yelling at him, there were 9 hours he missed out on.

But now he was moving quicker, John just had to figure out how to make the man eat.

It was two days later that Sherlock found the killer. But of course he didn't tell anyone, expect perhaps the skull. John came home to find his laptop open and a Google maps on. John rung Lestrade to tell him where to go and made his own way there.

It turned out Donavon was right.

They were stood around a body and this time it was Sherlock Holmes who put it there. He didn't admit it, but the blood was on his hands.

"He did it." Sherlock stated as the large group entered the hotel room. "He killed my big brother." and those were the last words uttered by Sherlock Holmes for over 5 months.

Sherlock didn't blink as Lestrade regretfully placed handcuffs around his wrists, nor did he blink when John told him that he would be in prison for a lifetime now that Mycroft can't get him out. But still Sherlock refused to speak, refused to react.

But John continued to do as any Best Friend should do, he posted Sherlocks bail, found the man the best lawyer money can buy and spoke in his defence in court. He was willing to lie for the man but there was no point, there were at least 5 officers who saw what he did. One of those being Lestrade, but Lestrade was willing to lie for Sherlock. Lestrade knew Sherlock was right, that the man he killed was a cold blooded killer, but he couldn't lie, not with other officers that would go against his lie. Catch him out. Know he lied.

It was 2 months before the first court case but that was postponed, Lestrade complained but there was nothing he could do. The second was another 2 months, as the magistrate decided whether or not he was guilty was the longest 20 minutes of John's life.

It didn't seem like Sherlock even knew what was going on. The taller man just stared into space, not speaking, not doing anything. The same as he had for the past 4 months.

At least he ate and slept.

John had been acting as a full time career, giving the man food, drink, covering him when he fell asleep on the sofa or carrying him to his bed. John always made sure his violin was out, wishing that Sherlock would play it at 3am and wake him up. John wanted to hear the man's annoying deductions, his loud violin; he wanted to find a finger with the chips, or a head in the microwave that Sherlock was experimenting on.

But he didn't.

Every day he would come home to an empty shell that once was the consulting detective.

6 weeks after Mycroft had been found John heard Sherlock whimpering in the night and entered his room to find Sherlock curled up on himself, shaking. A nightmare. John tried to wake him, which failed, however the moment John put his hand on Sherlocks shoulder in an attempt to wake him Sherlock would calm, so John retracted his hand causing Sherlock to whimper again. So John reluctantly but still willingly climbed into the bed. To comfort Sherlock for as long as it would take, but he would never tell anyone. Not for himself, not because he didn't want to be talked about, but for Sherlock. John knew that Sherlock would not want to admit to having a nightmare. He would think of it as a weakness.

When John would wake it was to an empty bed and he would find Sherlock in the sitting room perched on his chair holding the skull, the skull John had later found out, from Lestrade, he had been given by Mycroft.

This happened often after the first time, most nights actually. But John never mentioned it. John would do anything to help Sherlock.

They were called back in and John almost laughed with relief.

**"Not guilty."  
**

John tried to tell Sherlock he was out, hoping Sherlock would at least nod but nothing. John led him outside ready to get a taxi when a black car pulled up in front of them and the back window rolled down to reveal Athena.

"I was with him," She told them brusquely. "His last moments. Didn't see the killer of course but he knew what you would do and made me promise to keep you out of jail. Try and stay out yeah?"

With that the car drove off and both men stared in its direction before John hailed a taxi.

It turned out Mycrofts body was still in the morgue, the funeral had been held off, by Molly and Lestrade, until Sherlock was no longer in threat of prison. But it was still a month after Sherlock was found not guilty until they had the funeral. It was left to Sherlock to arrange it but he didn't react so John took charge hoping he was doing what Mycroft would want. Athena contacted him and asked where and when, and he asked who to tell, she told him she'd take care of that.

There were only a few people there.

Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Athena and about 15 people John didn't recognise-he assumed Athena had told them.

Two of them walked straight towards Sherlock. The woman hugged him while the man attempted to shake his hand but Sherlock stared through them both, they introduced themselves to John as Cordelia and Wesley Holmes.

Sherlock and Mycrofts parents.

Cordelia was a tall woman with dark curly hair, she held herself too stiffly and John wasn't completely sure if that was natural or because she was at her sons' funeral. She was defiantly Sherlocks mum; her entire face was a feminine Sherlock.

Whilst Wesley was an older Mycroft in _every_ way, just without the umbrella.

The funeral was a tense affair, John, Wesley, Lestrade and Sherlock carried the coffin.

It was the first thing Sherlock had done without John leading him to do in months.

The priest asked if anyone would like to say a few words but there was no movement. John was about to stand, he had liked Mycroft and thought the man deserved at least _somebody_ to say something, even just a few words, when Sherlock beat him to it.

Sherlock stood up and walked straight to the front. He laid a single hand on the closed coffin and closed his eyes for a moment before taking the priests' place at the front and took a deep breath.

"Mycroft Holmes," Sherlock coughed clearing his throat, the first words spoken in 5 months and John couldn't help but notice the poetry in it, the last words being 'Big Brother' and the firsts being the brothers' name. "Mycroft Holmes was my brother. And we...loved to hate each other. Contently arguing. But despite that he would look after me. He would comfort me after a childish nightmare or when I scarped my knee and he kept me safe throughout my years of drugs. As he said often he worried about me constantly, but I would forget to worry about him. I forgot my brother was not an invincible superhero that every little boy sees there older brother as. I never seemed to grow up from that. But he did and he saved me from myself and many others. I wish I found a way to repay him instead of insulting every move he made and just making life difficult for him at every turn. All I can stay now is Thank You Mycroft. Thank you for my childhood and my life. You kept it a happy one and kept me alive despite a few of my own efforts. Thank you."

With that Sherlock left the building.

John considered following him but he knew Sherlock and knew the consulting detective would just want to be left alone.

It was that evening when the two were sat in 221B Baker Street; Sherlock was in the silence that John had grown accustomed to when Sherlock spoke. The noise making John jump but the words warmed his heart.

"Thank You John."

John looked up at his best friend, Sherlocks eyes were red, which tear tracks down his cheeks and he looked absolutely _exhausted_ but John didn't mention it, and he didn't have to ask what the thanks was for.

"Anytime Sherlock."


End file.
